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and feints of Derrida and the others. Bob enjoyed guy-talk and wordplay and performing faux-casual postmodern tricks, like giving semiotic readings of the food sold at McDonald’s (“What signifies McNugget ?”), or making fanciful claims as to the hidden subversions of Hollywood blockbusters. He claimed that those beefy-muscled action heroes could teach Hélène Cixous a thing or two about the meaning of the masculine.
Flannery didn’t actually hear Anne, but once a week she saw her sitting at the front of the lecture hall. She witnessed Anne handing out the exam questions for the midterm. While Bradley held forth, Flannery watched Anne brush her hand through her hair and sensed her fingers twitching for nicotine; she noted her occasional taking of notes; and she took in the curve of her leather jacket as she leaned over sometimes to whisper jokes to Bob, who nodded and grinned. Flannery couldn’t hear the voice or the jokes, mostly couldn’t even see Anne’s face, just the copper cut of her hair. But by a trick of her mind she could feel the woman’s breath in her ear, which made her own note-taking impossible, and melted her deeper, uselessly, into her seat.
C heryl dropped Criticism, thank God, so Flannery was freed of any connection to Tuesday Anne. There was another class member, a sharp Korean woman named Susan, who was good to talk to in disentangling theory but had an unfortunate habit of telling bewitching tales of her TA—who happened to be Anne. “She’s so smart and funny, I swear to God she’s better than Bradley,” Susan had said once to Flannery Reluctantly, Flannery excused herself out of their study sessions together as a way of trying to regain her balance.
She couldn’t do it. It was unregainable. Flannery looked for Anne on campus even when she swore to herself that she wasn’t, and she found Anne in places she never would have looked. She saw Anne’s face through the window of a Japanese restaurant, where she was eating sushi with an unseeable companion; she saw Anne waiting to cross the street, sipping from a Styrofoam cup, looking impatient; and she saw Anne once in the all-night convenience store, buying cigarettes, when Flannery was there for detergent. Dressed in her laundry outfit—baggy gray sweats and her sheepskin boots, for God’s sake, with a dumb-logoed sweatshirt—Flannery had had to flee empty-handed, and was forced afterward to beg some Cheer from a friend.
Then there were the patterns Flannery had inadvertently noticed. Anne seemed to breakfast regularly at the Yankee Doodle, so that any morning Flannery “accidentally” passed the tiny diner, an internal battle waged whether or not she should look inside. (She had once been burned by Anne’s looking up, too, so their eyes met; humiliated, Flannery had to skip that day’s lecture.) Anne held office hours on Fridays and could be seen crossing the wide lawn toward the rust-colored corner building in the mid-afternoon light. And there was a section of the library—the underground, red-lit bunkerlike section, near the coffee and candy machines—where Anne could be found nights, reading and smoking. Occasionally with someone, often alone. Every time Flannery went to the library she had to ask herself: Are you really going to study? Or are you planning to find an excuse to go buy a Twix bar? Worse—are you going to try to study, only to torment yourself with cravings for chocolate, which you can’t then satisfy as it might mean seeing her face?
The simplest solution to this extravagant problem would have been for Flannery herself to drop Criticism. The approach of the drop deadline made her pretend to consider it. But, she argued with herself, she liked Criticism. Really! It was interesting. She was learning a lot; and she had done so well on the midterm. It seemed stupid to stop taking it just because of a slightly distracting infatuation, which would doubtless pass soon enough. Besides, it was a body of
Flannery didn’t actually hear Anne, but once a week she saw her sitting at the front of the lecture hall. She witnessed Anne handing out the exam questions for the midterm. While Bradley held forth, Flannery watched Anne brush her hand through her hair and sensed her fingers twitching for nicotine; she noted her occasional taking of notes; and she took in the curve of her leather jacket as she leaned over sometimes to whisper jokes to Bob, who nodded and grinned. Flannery couldn’t hear the voice or the jokes, mostly couldn’t even see Anne’s face, just the copper cut of her hair. But by a trick of her mind she could feel the woman’s breath in her ear, which made her own note-taking impossible, and melted her deeper, uselessly, into her seat.
C heryl dropped Criticism, thank God, so Flannery was freed of any connection to Tuesday Anne. There was another class member, a sharp Korean woman named Susan, who was good to talk to in disentangling theory but had an unfortunate habit of telling bewitching tales of her TA—who happened to be Anne. “She’s so smart and funny, I swear to God she’s better than Bradley,” Susan had said once to Flannery Reluctantly, Flannery excused herself out of their study sessions together as a way of trying to regain her balance.
She couldn’t do it. It was unregainable. Flannery looked for Anne on campus even when she swore to herself that she wasn’t, and she found Anne in places she never would have looked. She saw Anne’s face through the window of a Japanese restaurant, where she was eating sushi with an unseeable companion; she saw Anne waiting to cross the street, sipping from a Styrofoam cup, looking impatient; and she saw Anne once in the all-night convenience store, buying cigarettes, when Flannery was there for detergent. Dressed in her laundry outfit—baggy gray sweats and her sheepskin boots, for God’s sake, with a dumb-logoed sweatshirt—Flannery had had to flee empty-handed, and was forced afterward to beg some Cheer from a friend.
Then there were the patterns Flannery had inadvertently noticed. Anne seemed to breakfast regularly at the Yankee Doodle, so that any morning Flannery “accidentally” passed the tiny diner, an internal battle waged whether or not she should look inside. (She had once been burned by Anne’s looking up, too, so their eyes met; humiliated, Flannery had to skip that day’s lecture.) Anne held office hours on Fridays and could be seen crossing the wide lawn toward the rust-colored corner building in the mid-afternoon light. And there was a section of the library—the underground, red-lit bunkerlike section, near the coffee and candy machines—where Anne could be found nights, reading and smoking. Occasionally with someone, often alone. Every time Flannery went to the library she had to ask herself: Are you really going to study? Or are you planning to find an excuse to go buy a Twix bar? Worse—are you going to try to study, only to torment yourself with cravings for chocolate, which you can’t then satisfy as it might mean seeing her face?
The simplest solution to this extravagant problem would have been for Flannery herself to drop Criticism. The approach of the drop deadline made her pretend to consider it. But, she argued with herself, she liked Criticism. Really! It was interesting. She was learning a lot; and she had done so well on the midterm. It seemed stupid to stop taking it just because of a slightly distracting infatuation, which would doubtless pass soon enough. Besides, it was a body of
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